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A voracious feast of the dead, purging rot and liquified tissue from the skeleton until advanced decay claims everything, giving the remaining nutrients back to the soil, to nature. The way Mother Earth intended. Nothing wrong about it.
The body is never wrong for them. They devour it. They just eat. They are ugly, and I cannot blame them for this, cannot fault their design the way society faults mine, faults us all.
Maybe I could have kept them forever. Is this what the vultures do? These guardians of the underworld, these eaters of flesh and souls, what are the secrets hidden inside their curving vertebrae? The longing to hold something dead against my tongue consumes me like a starvation. The power of it floods my body stronger than the sin of wrath ever has. Can dead flesh hold anger?
my love for Luna is more obsession than real love.
I need guidance to fill the empty ache in my body. Otherwise, I am forever starving for help, unsure of how to ask for it.
Our deaths deserve no other meaning than to be devoured.
Our bodies have ruined the earth, it seems only right such bodies should give back to nature, to the animals. Because then it does not matter if society declares your face or skin or features wrong, we are all bodies waiting to be swallowed into soil, into the ocean.
The yearning to crawl inside the warmth of her washes over me like the steamed heat of an opened oven door. For her, I would disintegrate inside steam. For her, I would burn.
